


Look For Me (By Moonlight)

by Wordsmith_Storyweaver



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts and Haunting;, Past Lives, Reincarnation?, ghosts and possession, no one gets freaky with a ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-06-21 10:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15555885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsmith_Storyweaver/pseuds/Wordsmith_Storyweaver
Summary: Emma Nolan's family has been in the same business for literally hundreds of years--operating an Inn in the Colonial Village tourist area of Viola Island, New Jersey. And her Mom takes historical accuracy and their heritage pretty seriously, including sharing the local ghost stories and the legend behind the hauntings. Enter one Dr. Killian Jones: one of the world's most famous Skeptics of all things supernatural and mythbuster extraordinaire. Convinced that anyone who runs a "haunted" business must be a fraud or in need of some serious therapy, he's never seen or experienced anything that could shake his belief that ghosts don't exist.However, there's certainly something strange happening on Viola Island... Something that's happened more than once before. Because everything around him suddenly looks very familiar in ways that he can't explain. And while seeing Emma in period costume isn't exactly weird, she definitely shouldn't be dreaming about the "good" doctor rocking a ponytail and tricorn. And she's fairly certain he doesn't really have a hook for a hand...





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N:  Welcome to my contribution to the Captain Swan Supernatural Summer! A big thank you to the following people: @kmomof4 for encouraging me to do this; @artistic-writer and @cocohook38 for agreeing (last minute, I might add) to make artwork for this piece and dealing with my relative caginess about the plot; @onceuponataarna and @totheendoftheworldortime for being my cheerleaders and always encouraging my writing. I don't have everything fully worked out yet, but I plan on posting every Friday until this is finished. I hope you enjoy! -JJ**

 PROLOGUE

_Mid-April 1778_

Cillian mab Alis merch Jone, known more commonly as Killian Jones to the press gang of the British Navy, hates the Redcoats. Unfortunately, due to its thriving port and strategic location where the Delaware River spilled into the sea, his adopted home of Viola Island suffers much like the rest of the New Jersey Colony (as soldiers insisted upon calling it)—absolutely infested with them.

Once, long ago, like many a poor Welsh lad, he and his brother Liam had chosen to seek their fortunes on the seas with the whaling fleets of the Massachusetts Bay Company, rather than endure a hardscrabble life of penury under the boot heels of English landlords. They would never have become rich, as their combined pay was not nearly enough to purchase more shares in the ship’s ventures or secure an officership for themselves, but at least they were not stuck down in the tin and coal mines back home. They risked life and limb just as frequently, but they breathed pure, clean air whilst doing so.

However, the King’s Navy was in constant need of able-bodied, if entirely unwilling, seamen, and a short bit of shore leave ended with Cillian as thoroughly anchored to the man-o-war as if he were clapped in irons in the brig. Liam, the stupidly noble git, followed the trail of the press gang and allowed himself to be taken as well when he could not secure his younger brother’s freedom with a bribe.

Cillian’s heart and his left arm ever ached fiercely at the memory—he would much rather have lost _both_ his arms and his legs to the grape shot that broke through the hull during a skirmish with the Frenchies than to have lost his brother to the heavy gun that had been knocked out of its mooring. Liam had been in such a rush to save Cillian’s miserable hide that he gave no thought to himself, just as he always had done.

The whole buggering mess had left him short nearly half an arm, one brother, and any sense of purpose. The Navy had no use for him without the arm—he might be more mobile than those who had lost a leg, but most tasks above and below decks required two working hands—and his lack of education worked against him with the Company despite his previous years of stellar service. With little money to his name and no place aside from the sea where he felt at peace, Cillian took to the roads along the coast of the colonies.

Plenty of landowners were willing to take him on for a day or a week out of pity for his loss and service to the Crown, but none were willing to take on a cripple as a servant permanently. So, Cillian worked as long as he could in each place before moving on, earning just enough money to travel to the next village and hopefully pour a few bellies full of rum down his gullet to numb the pain. Five years ago, it was as he was nearing the Delaware Colony that his luck changed and he quite literally saw the light: The Viola Island lighthouse and a kind yet fiery lass with golden hair…

∞∞∞

Cillian heaves a weary sigh as the sun breaks over the horizon and lights up the clear sky; much as he would love to seek his bed for a few hours of oblivion, there is a greater call on body and soul than sleep. He needs a respite from the lobster backs who have invaded his normally solitary home, and he needs to see his Emme. His lass, his reason for breathing. He needs to reassure himself that despite her parents’ insistence that they wait to officially marry until after the war has been decided, or at least until it is not occupying their town and their homes, Emme’s heart still belongs to him. And not to that toadying lickspittle Rayner Dunn.

Not that Cillian doubts his lover, but one does not easily say nay to the scion of the wealthiest man in town. Cameron Dunn, Scot though he may be, welcomed the men of the King’s Army with open arms and an open wallet when they landed and took possession of New Jersey. The greedy bugger’s politics resided in his pockets, not his head or his heart; so, despite being one of the most despised men in Cape May County, he remains one of the most powerful, and thus the wrong man to thwart or cross in the slightest of ways.

And while the elder Dunn has made no secret of his dislike for the Zwaan family, most like because of their stubborn refusal to sell him their inn and their lands, he has seen fit to support his son in his “wooing” of Emme. To make matters more complicated still, many of the officers and soldiers quartered at the Zwarte Zwanne have made their interest in “sampling all the inn’s wares” quite plain as well. Dunn money may speak louder, but an officer of the Crown forcing Phillip’s and Marja’s hands in securing their daughter’s compliance, willing or nay, remains a bitter reality of the occupation.

In truth, much as he would love to simply escape with her for an afternoon stroll (or forever, for that matter), Cillian merely needs to see with his own eyes how his lass fares. And ask her if she has heard aught more about the arrival of General Howe’s replacement. For, with the highest ranked officers billeted with her family and eating daily in their tavern, Emme makes the perfect spy for the Colonial Army.

So, mixing very serious business with genuine pleasure, Cillian saddles his horse and prepares to ride into town.

∞∞∞

“Your ardent admirer is following us again, Emme. If he and his father were not so repulsive, his fortune might nearly make him worth encouraging as a suitor.” She wishes she could smile at Gemma’s attempted witticism, but she finds nothing remotely amusing in Rayner Dunn’s obsession with her. And she can think of no better word for his continued pursuit of her than that, for he certainly harbors no tender feelings for herself—any love or joy at a prospective alliance with her will be reserved for her inheritance, not her person. He pursues her because she has denied him and because she has never fallen for his easy smiles.

“Perhaps you should encourage him then. You would become the wealthiest woman in the village.” Emme cannot help teasing back yet shudders at the thought of losing her best friend to anyone, let alone to a man and a family who has seen her kith and kin as a thorn in their sides since he arrived from Scotland all those years ago. She may have been quite young, mayhap no more than three, but she can distinctly recall the sneer on Cameron Dunn’s face and the crack of his riding crop against her head when she accidentally caused his horse to rear in the street on the day of his arrival.

“Unfortunately, I imagine the stink of ale and cheap perfume would be difficult to stomach over breakfast on a daily basis. And I said ‘almost’, dear Emme. Lieutenant Humbert, however does not appear to be afflicted with a propensity for drunkenness and low company. Should our glorious King’s army prevail, as they should, you could rest easy knowing that your husband helped keep us all safe and secure.”

“Indeed. The lieutenant is an amiable man and conducts himself as a gentleman, unlike some of his fellow officers… Yet the life of a soldier is said to be quite hard, and that of a soldier’s wife more difficult still.” _Nor could I stomach such an alliance, even if my heart were not engaged elsewhere_ , she thinks silently; for even if she fully trusts Gemma not to betray her, in spite of their difference of opinion on the moral and legal rightness of the declaration of war, speaking such thoughts aloud carries grave danger and courts risk to more people than herself alone.

Gemma nudges her hip with her basket, a knowing and sly grin on her lips. “You could do worse… There’s always Captain Booth.”

“I am not certain you are correct, Mistress Lucassen. Mistress Zwaan could always sail off with one of the river pirates one of these days, although I have heard that those scoundrels can make quite enough to keep even His Majesty in jewels and furs for at least a year.” Both ladies startle slightly at Cillian’s observation and unexpected (though far from unwelcome) appearance, however Emme recovers faster than her friend.

“I thought helping his Majesty’s soldiers apprehend such brigands was a part of your duties, Master Jones. Shall I tell my father or one of the other Aldermen that you are being derelict?” Cillian bows to both ladies, who curtsey in turn; the subtle flash of silver at the edge of Emme’s bodice fills him with equal amounts of relief and pride. Though it looks to go on for several more years at the least, he finds himself longing ever more for the end of the war so that he can fully and publicly claim his betrothed.

“Alas, Mistress! I am but one man in charge of one lighthouse, and while I certainly do my utmost to ensure the safety of this village and the river, I am afraid that more than one scallywag has slipped through our nets of late. The blockade means that both sides suffer want, and there will ever be men willing to fulfill those needs outside of legal bounds.” Gemma rolls her eyes at her friend and her friend’s lover; they may have most of the villagers and the soldiers fooled, but she knows Emme like no other. And while it might hurt that she is keeping her engagement a secret, Gemma understands Emme’s natural caution.

She also does not think Cillian Jones a good match for Emme, but knows that to air her objections would be to merely anger and alienate her closest companion. Gemma sighs inwardly, unwilling to fight a losing battle and does her best to cheerfully play her part. She puts on her best distracted but concerned expression and hefts her basket back into the crook of her elbow. “Well, I had best return to get the bread set in the oven for this evening’s supper. You will see her safely to the inn door, yes Master Jones?”

He places his hand over his heart and bows once more. “You have my word, Mistress. I will protect her with my life.”

Knowing he truly means his words softens the look on her face slightly, so that she appears genuinely worried when she speaks. “May it never come to that.”

Emme and Killian watch Gemma walk away before looking back at each other. As soon as their eyes meet, all other considerations melt away. He gallantly offers her his right arm, a now unspoken, affectionate argument happening between them as she pointedly ignores it in favor of taking his left. After first inquiring as to what happened to his hand back when he first arrived, Emme had never behaved differently toward him, has never treated him as if the lack made him lesser; even before he and the blacksmith and the saddler had contrived to create the brace and hook to allow him to more easily care for the light, she had never acted repulsed by his stump.

Her casual acceptance of his deficiency never fails to make his heart clench, never ceases to inspire him with awe and wonder at the beauty of her soul. And the part of him that spent so long living off the scraps of pity tossed his way by others rears its head once more to remind him how undeserving, how unworthy he is to call her his bride. “Emme…”

She pinches his side sharply before he can say another word. “I just endured a conversation where the merits of young Master Dunn, as well as Captain Booth and Lieutenant Humbert, as a matrimonial candidate were discussed. Unless you wish to cry off and take back your pledge, then I will be holding you to your promise to me, Cillian. I chose to say yes that day on the beach, and I will choose to say yes even after we officially go before the Reverend. Do you remember the words we spoke?”

She had said all of this until the last sentence without actually looking at him, but she finally pulls him to a stop and faces him, anxiety and the fear of rejection weighing down her beloved features. Cillian reaches toward the chain about her neck and carefully pulls the pendant stone free—a dark green, oval of marble that reminded him of stormy seas and the darkening of her eyes with strong emotions.

Softly, he speaks but a few of the vows made in secret with nature itself as their witness. “With this ‘ring’, I thee wed; with my body, I thee worship; with all of my heart, I thee love and will be true until the end of the world.”

Emme reaches out and squeezes his hand gently before taking the pendant from his hand and slipping it back into her bodice. “And do you intend to honor your pledges, Cillian mab Alis? Because I have every intention of holding you to them, especially that second one, as often as humanly possible.”

He lets her take his arm again and smiles brightly at the gentle blush that spreads across her cheek. “I live upon my memories of that day, sweet Emme. And I, for one, cannot wait until the day this bloody war is over. Because the moment that it is, you and I will be marching straight to Reverend Hoppers, no matter how many Redcoats or rich men I have to fight my way through.”

The rest of their walk is spent in quiet chatter, discussing the little nothings that make up their daily lives. By the time they reach her parents’ inn, Rayner Dunn has given up shadowing them in favor of seeking temporary comfort in the bottom of a tankard. And, thankfully, no one notices that Emme slips him a piece of paper when he takes her hand in his and presses a kiss to her knuckles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it has a way of doing, Life happened while I was working on the next chapter... And then writer's block. Naturally.

_Present Day_

 

She knows the dream, because when it comes, it’s the same as always; there are a few solid details, but it’s more a jumble of emotions and images than anything else: an afternoon walk along a deserted, yet vaguely familiar beach with an incredibly handsome man; his nearly black hair kept shaggy and long, tied back messily with a queue; his eyes bright, mirroring both sky and sea… Love. A love as deep as his eyes. A love so consuming that she wants very much to be terrified for the power it gives him over her, but which thrills her all the same. A silver necklace set with a dark green stone and a promise. Ecstasy. Joy.

 

British soldiers and sailors everywhere about the wooden buildings of a small village; serving them drinks and meals, as well as cleaning their rooms and avoiding (or slapping) their wandering hands. Righteous, impotent fury. Frustration and disgust. Excitement—news. A fire! Heartache. Misery. The handsome man—clean trimmed and shaven now—with an expression like madness, howling in grief at a graveyard before dashing away on his horse. Shock and fear. Powerless. And the headstone…

 

Emma gasps as she wakes up with the sense of urgency gripping her hard, barely keeping herself from rolling off the bed and onto her feet. She knows it must be the same dream as before, because it has woken her the exact same way every time; most of the finer the details, the images slip through her fingers and fade too quickly for her to remember them. But the feelings? She remembers those just fine, especially that yawning, infinite sense of despair and that driving need to fix… something. She never can figure out what it is she’s supposed to do, but it feels almost like an item on the shelf just out of her reach—vitally important, but untouchable.

 

It also doesn’t help that— “Emma! Time to get up, sweetheart!”—her Mom has always had a sixth sense for when her daughter is awake. Thoughts of the baking and cooking prep-work to be done for the day quickly drive all worries about mostly-forgotten dreams from her mind.

 

When she finally admitted that her relationship with her boyfriend was dead and came back home from Boston with little more than her clothes, her Dad’s old truck, and a feloniously drained bank account, she had known that getting up early in the morning to help her Mom by working in the kitchen was going to be a staple of her daily life again. But that doesn’t stop her from glaring at her “uniform” and grumbling with every additional skirt layer she pulls on and ties into place.

 

_Just be grateful that cotton blends and lighter linens are a thing now, Emma. Our ancestors had to put up with wool and hemp, which were both itchier and heavier. And the boning I sew into the short jackets has so much more give than the corsets those poor girls over at Belle Manor are forced to wear._ She smiles at the memory of the conversation, one repeated often during her teen years and most recently a few months ago.

 

Growing up in the New Jersey town of Viola Island, a quaint little tourist destination known for its dedication to preservation of both wildlife and the state’s colorful history, she had grown up hearing all about the fashions of people 200 plus years in the past; and, since her parents owned and operated the Black Swan Inn, also worn more than her fair share of those same fashions.

 

Because the Black Swan had been in her mother’s family for generations—since the first settlers, if you asked her mother and certain local historians. There were other hotels that claimed to have been in continuous operation since the founding of the New Jersey colony, but the Swan and their main competitors, the Golden Crown Inn and Belle Manor, were the only ones officially recognized as such by the town’s and county’s tourism boards.

 

Emma’s also fairly certain that the officially unofficial feud between the families who owned the battling B&Bs dates back to the founding as well. She faintly remembers Grandmother Eva sharing the legend with her as a child, of a duel fought after a fire killed someone during the British occupation of the town. Something along those lines. The present was always her strong suit rather than history—not that she isn’t proud of her heritage.

 

As she walks out of her room and down the hallway, she hears music coming faintly out of her younger brother’s bedroom. At 16, eight years younger than herself, Henry has probably even less enthusiasm for the family business than she does. But that has less to do with his dislike of history or period costume, and more to do with the fact that he’s in a lot of really challenging classes at school, some extracurricular activities, and has a deep love of reading. While Emma had been eager to get out and see the world away from their hometown, Henry always has to be dragged kicking and screaming out of his books and into interacting with currently living human beings.

 

If Emma had been more academically inclined at his age, she too might have gotten out of her share of morning chores, but though she had griped and complained like any normal teenager would, she had always secretly loved the accomplished feeling she got from helping her parents’ business thrive in a real, tangible way. Before she left home for college, Emma had been responsible for tending the kitchen garden and its produce; now, the garden is too large for just one person to care for and is kept with the rest of the demonstration farm (a big hit with the school groups who come on educational field trips) under her Dad’s supervision.

 

Thankfully, since incorporating the farm as a fixture of the Colonial Village experience with the town’s government, the Swan had been able to afford additional hands to take care of its plant and animal produce; not only does their family get to use some of the food to supply the inn’s kitchen, but the farm also supplies many of the other B& B’s and restaurants on the Island. Which turned out to be an even better investment for everyone, as Mayor Mills’ efforts to increase the budget for their local tourism board and the hiring of several younger, social media savvy residents by her office has lead to a dramatic increase in visitors year-round, rather than just during the summer months.

 

So, while Emma’s days tend to be a little on the long side, her hours are usually pretty consistent; if she’s one of the first people in the kitchen and making breakfast, she’s also usually done by 2 o’clock for the day. It also means that she sticks to food and food-prep for the whole day and, aside from bringing out a meal or two, usually doesn’t have to actually interact with any of the guests. Or their annoying demands.

 

Emma can’t deny the positives of having more tourists spending their time and money on the Island, but she also misses the days when everything didn’t feel so much like an amusement park. There had always been bikes and horse-drawn carriages—cars were strictly banned within Viola Island city limits—but now there were electric-powered trolleys, golf carts, and dreaded Segues everywhere. Not to mention… the tours.

 

Like many of the eastern states with any sort of claim on history (i.e., the parts of the U.S. that actually _had_ history more than 100 years old), there was a big push to market anything and everything that made a place historically distinct and important. And unfortunately, while the fact that New Jersey was occupied by the British during the Revolutionary war and Viola Island itself sat at the mouth of the Delaware River, famously crossed by the great General Washington, was “interesting”, it didn’t have the sexiness of some of the other facts about the Island: namely pirates and ghosts.

 

Since the inn was sheltered closer to the center of Viola Island, Emma thankfully doesn’t have to watch Jack Sparrow wannabes strutting around the boardwalks and beach paths every day. However, as one of the highlights of the _Haunted Vi Isle_ tour, Emma _does_ have to deal with the Goths, Wiccans, and New-Age “mediums” who flock to supposedly haunted site like vultures to a… well, you know.

 

Granted, she’s heard stories of the hauntings all of her life, from her Grandmother Eva and some of the older residents who live down in Townie Ville and Little Townie, but she’s never seen or felt anything herself. Despite living in the family apartment attached to the inn herself for eighteen years and frequently cleaning the supposedly haunted room. Other than attract weirdos and people who have more money than sense, the ghosts that haunt the Black Swan and other spots on the tours haven’t really contributed anything to the actual running of the business.

 

Unlike Emma, who has definitely put more than a little of her own blood, sweat, and tears into the day to day work—especially of the second during the hotter summer months. Blissfully, the ocean breeze is quite cool this early in the morning, and—even though the improved kitchen has air conditioning—she takes a moment to step outside and enjoy the fresh, salty air. Despite the fact that the sun has yet to rise and her view to the beach is blocked by the fields and the privacy screen of trees marking the Gold Resort property, she can almost see herself strolling along the shoreline in the pre-dawn light. She can almost hear the waves and the birds, as if she’s waiting for a call of another kind…

 

Emma shivers, shaking her thoughts out of their fanciful train and instead glowers at the trees. Dougal Gold’s dislike of anyone who actually lives and works on Viola Island is legendary, so even if most of the Townies couldn’t afford the price tag for a one-night’s stay at his exclusive resort, he’d likely reserve the right to refuse service to those who could. The cheap bastard doesn’t even have discount pricing for his employees for special events like birthdays, engagement parties, and weddings; and she’s fairly certain he’s put up “shoot on sight” posters with her parents’ pictures underneath on break room bulletin boards throughout the reportedly opulent hotel.

 

All because the Black Swan Inn remains operational, successful, and out from under his thumb, while proudly displaying the plaque that proclaims their historical importance to the Island and the state. In her lifetime alone, Emma can recall meeting Mr. Gold on only a handful of occasions… But they all happened with at least one lawyer (and usually several county sheriffs) present, his face bringing a whole new meaning to the phrase “if looks could kill”. Uncertain as to where these angry, morbid thoughts are coming from on what promises to be a beautiful day, she makes up her mind to ignore them and heads around to the exterior entrance to the inn’s kitchen. The electric lights glowing through the already opened door and the resounding slap-boom of dough being pounded on makes her grin.

 

When she finally made the decision to return home she had told her parents that she was more than willing to work hard and not just take a handout from them, but Emma _had_ drawn a firm line in the sand with her Mom: unless someone was literally dying or was otherwise irreplaceable, she refused to work in the historically accurate kitchen. Less than top-of-the-line utensils and equipment, she could handle, but she liked making things that people could safely and legally be fed according to modern health code standards.

 

Plus, working indoors meant— “Stop stalling and get in here, girly! These cinnamon rolls won’t make themselves!”

 

Emma’s grin stretches wider as she rounds the door and enters the brightly lit domain of Granny. She immediately reaches for her apron and starts tying it in place over her layered dress. “I was enjoying the breeze for a minute. And how are you here before me? I live almost literally right down the hall!”

 

After securing all the ties, she grabs her kerchief and bobby pins from the front pocket. With quick fingers, she braids her hair and secures it up around her head with the pins, covering the coiled mass with the light linen. “At my age, you start to see the wisdom in the phrase ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’. Too many irons still in the fire, and I hate leaving things unfinished. There was dough to mix and let rise for today’s bread and those rolls you like to make. Plus—”

 

“You’re AC is on the fritz again and you’re too stubborn and prideful to ask my Dad to help you fix it? He _is_ your landlord, you know. It’s kind of his job to make sure that sort of thing gets taken care of,” Emma interrupts as she washes her hands. Granny puts one white-powdered, fisted hand on her hip, the other blindly and accurately dipping into the bowl of flour on her station and throwing a handful forcefully onto the waiting dough before pointing a whitened finger at Emma.

 

“And it’s _Ruby’s_ job not to be a nosy snitch about what isn’t her business.”

 

Emma sighs and rolls her eyes, noting that the butter, sugar, and cinnamon are all set up at her station just the way she prefers; her favorite equipment is even laid out just so. She walks over and lays a hand on Granny’s shoulder—not that she doesn’t do hugs, but one of Granny’s rules is no favoritism or unnecessary affection in the kitchen. “A. You’re her grandma, so everything about you is Ruby’s business. B. Dad will fix it because it’s part of his responsibility as a landlord. Not because he’s doing you any special favors. C. He likes to take care of you in any way he can, so please humor him and let him feel like “heap big Handyman” for once? D—”

 

Granny scoffs. “Alright, girly, alright! I’ll tell him when he comes in for breakfast.”

 

Emma smiles at her gently so as not to set her off again, but inside she does some fist-pumping and a little happy dancing over her victory. Getting Granny to accept help or admit defeat in anything usually takes a lot of strategic cunning… Or the equivalent of a nuclear arsenal’s worth of arguments. She settles for the honest truth as she preps her table for rolling out the dough. “You’re family, Granny. And we always take care of family.”

 

The response to this is some inarticulate grumbling, even more vigorous pounding against the breadboard, and a barely audible sniffle passed off as a sneeze. “Not by blood, but then that’s always been the Blanchard way… Your Dad may be a Nolan, but he takes care of his own like a Blanchard. Leo and Eva would be proud that he’s kept their legacy alive. Though Eva would definitely shudder at the kinds of people who tromp through her Inn and flower garden on these tours.”

 

Emma laughs, both at Granny’s expression and the way she can picture the exact look of distaste on her grandmother’s face. She presses the back of her hand to her forehead and fans herself delicately with the other. “The horror!”

 

Laughter fills the kitchen along with the sweet scent of spices. Dawn breaks over the horizon, bringing light and warmth to the late September morning in what promises to be a good, yet perfectly ordinary day.

 

 

 ∞∞∞

_June 2, 1780_

 

Cillian fidgets nervously, causing his horse to shy and prance uncomfortably underneath him. Despite the fact that he had survived the loss of Philadelphia, the miserable winter at Valley Forge, and all of the skirmishes with the British after they had fled New Jersey and Pennsylvania for the dubious comforts of New York, he has been unable to find a legitimate excuse to come home since his flight to warn Washington of Cornwallis’ arrival. But with word that Clinton was planning on invading the state with one of his dreaded Hessian commanders, Cillian had asked for the task of warning the local militias…

 

And if he takes the opportunity to look in on his home for a night or so, then he doubts there’s a man alive who will begrudge him the scant comfort in between the dangerous rounds of scouting and spying assignments. When he breaks free of the tree line and sees the wide sweeps of shore and ocean for the first time in over two years, his heart thrums with joy. Although still unable to be crossed, he observes with a soldier’s keen eye that the old wooden bridge is slowly being repaired—sections of the silted beach are raised higher to dam away the water as more solid stone replaces the rotting or missing pillars.

 

But more than the changes to the bridge, it strikes Cillian that he does not recognize the man working the ferry landing; Walter Tanner had been old and gray when Cillian left, but its current occupant is older still and looks at him and his hook with a mistrustful eye. Even showing his papers does little to convince the ferryman, who demands twice the normal fare for passage to the Island. Only the sound of passing water and his horse’s stamps and whickers of distress accompany their journey rather than friendly gossip or suspicious interrogation.

 

Thankfully, he spies men and women who he knows once he lands, quickly mounting up and heading away from the docks. He greets them with a nod and a smile, which most of them tentatively return, yet no one engages him in conversation; a few startle with surprise, but most behave as if they last saw him yesterday and not nearly 26 months ago. Mindful that there might yet be British spies about, he speaks briefly and quietly to a few who can spread the word swiftly that any and all militiamen should report to their commanding officers.

 

However, the hushed sphere of silence around him does not become readily apparent until he draws closer and closer to the market square. At the docks, the creaking and groaning of timbers and men’s backs, the shouting and bustle of laborers going busily about their lives covered the sudden absence—and then just as sudden, but hushed, reemergence—of conversation. At the center of town, goodwives openly stare at him as he passes, furiously whispering at each other once his back is to them.

 

But it isn’t until the smithy Anton stops swinging his hammer at the glowing bit of iron on his anvil and gawps openly that Cillian begins to think that something might be amiss. Carefully nudging with his heels and a gentle tug of the reins, he makes his way over to the open-air forge. Seeing him coming closer, the blacksmith finally recovers himself and sets the half-finished horseshoe into the nearby bucket of water.  The giant of a man then sets aside his tools and pulls his massive handkerchief up from his apron pocket to mop at his sweating brow, his nervousness further betrayed by his wringing of the material with his hands as he approaches the front of his shop and his waiting friend.

 

Cillian dismounts, still delighted and relieved to see the familiar, ruddy face in spite of the tension in the air. He moves to shake hands, only to find himself somewhat smothered in a brotherly embrace, his ribs protesting the pummeling they receive from Anton’s meaty paw. “By God, Cillian! It is good to zee you, my geode man! We haf had geen tijding, no news of you! You just verwijn—fanished! Disappeared!”

 

He snaps his fingers and waves his whole hand to help translate his meaning, a habit learned from when he first arrived in the colony as he once told Cillian during their efforts to craft a suitable replacement for his hand. Anton’s tendency to switch between his native Dutch and English makes Cillian smile, heartened and hopeful to know that some things have remained the same. “And I zee mine vakmanschap has survived vell enough!”

 

“Enough to keep me in scouting trim, for certain. But what do you mean disappeared? You knew that I would be… travelling as soon as I got word of my brother’s return.” Cillian slips into code with ease, only hesitating at the sober expression on his friend’s face. “I couldn’t write to her immediately of course, but I presumed that Emme would have shared enough of my letters with you that you would know I was safe.”

 

“Ah. Ja…” The disappointment, nay, the _dejection_ weighing down those two syllables shocks him as surely and completely as the first sight of his mangled limb—even though his mind tries to protect him, his body waits on tenterhooks for the sharp bite of pain it instinctively senses is coming.

 

“Did Emme not receive my letters, Anton?”

 

The gentle giant’s eyes quickly avoid his avid gaze. “I could niet zay.”

 

Cillian grasps his massive arm, stopping his friend from turning away. “Did something happen, Anton? Did the Zwaans need to flee as well? Did Emme? Where is she?”

 

Anton yet refuses to look at him, gazing rather in the distance and swallowing repeatedly before speaking. “Phip and Marja vent to fisit family in Nederland. Young Hendrik has been running Die Zwanne.”

 

If Anton’s behavior had failed to alert him, his avoidance of her name erases all doubt. With a strength driven by his anger and fear, Cillian grabs him by the throat and slams him against the support beam. “Where  _is_  she, Anton? Where is Emme!”

 

Still refusing to look the younger man in the eye, his own begin to water and mist with tears. “She vas caught. Charged vid assaulting a British officer, Captain Booth. Zey… Zey wouldn’t let us… Christus!”

 

Cillian punches Anton in the stomach, barely causing any harm but making the larger man’s sob turn to wheezing. “Where? Tell me where she is, Anton!  _Where_!”

 

“The Potter’s Field, next to the churchyard.” Hendrik’s voice startles Cillian, making him turn away from the blacksmith. The young man before him looks thinner and older in more than years, grief and fury having honed him down to blade sharpness. But his gaze, when it meets Cillian’s speaks of compassion and understanding rather than the righteous anger he feels is due to him personally. “The garrison commander who tried her said that traitors were like suicides and didn’t deserve Christian burial. My parents have waited to have her moved to the family crypt. They thought you might want—Cillian!”

 

Mind churning with too many thoughts and emotions to even consider listening to another word, Cillian runs to his horse and mounts without another word, digging his heels into its flanks and forcing it into an immediate gallop _. Emme! Emme! **Emme!!**_

**Author's Note:**

> For any historical inaccuracies, I apologize. I do know who General Howe’s replacement was, and I know when he was involved in his first major engagement of 1778. However, I have been unable to locate a reliable date for when he arrived in New Jersey from personal leave in England. As such, I have made an educated guess as to when it was feasible for him to have returned.  
> Viola Island is based off of a real location in New Jersey, a town that was once an island separated from the mainland. This town and much of lower New Jersey was originally occupied by Dutch settlers; as a nod to this, to people who were surely proud of their distinct heritage, I have used Dutch renderings of the names of some of the Once characters. To reflect the cultural mixture that followed the initial settling and reflects the fact that this town was a port, I have made Killian a Welshman and Rumple (Cameron) and Baelfire (Rayner) into Scotsmen. The Inn’s name will be translated for you in the next chapter, but I imagine more than a few of you already have guessed.  
> Killian’s name is a rendering of how the Welsh commonly expressed their names, with reference to the one or two generations before rather than a “family” name; Cillian mab Alis merch Jone translates to Cillian (the Celtic rather than the Anglicized version of his name) son of Alis (Welsh version of Alice, although it also means marble) daughter of John (Jone is the Welsh rendering of John, and Jones as a last name means son of John). I specifically chose to leave Brennan out of the equation; thus, Liam and Killian were raised by their mother and grandfather. Interestingly, both Cillian and John/Jones are names that indicate a connection to the Christian idea of Church (community, connectedness). Thus, together, Emma and Killian technically are the “universal Church”, otherwise known as the Catholic Church… whose daughter is Hope.  
> Pronunciations: Emme (Emm-ee); Gemma (KHE-mah); Marja (mar-JAH); Zwaan (s-VAH-n)


End file.
